


Let Us Beware

by prettyvk



Series: The James Holmes Chronicles [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-09-20 14:59:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9497138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyvk/pseuds/prettyvk
Summary: Mycroft Holmes finds himself, somewhat unexpectedly, becoming an uncle to Jim Moriarty's child.





	1. 1074 (CFL 1)

**Author's Note:**

> _Let us beware of common folk, of common sense, of sentiment, of inspiration, and of the obvious._  
>  Charles Baudelaire
> 
> A collection of short ficlets, companions to Crazy For Love and its sequels. They won't make sense if you haven't read the rest of the James Holmes Chronicles. To be posted chronologically. My goal is to post every Sunday.
> 
> For BakerStMel who won my auction for Fandom Trumps Hate <3
> 
> [Podfic version by the fantabulous bagofthumbs](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9502502)

It’s been a long couple of days – those Americans, always mucking up everything – and Mycroft is more than ready to go home. Some sleep would be quite nice. Food, possibly, too.

He closes one last file on his computer, logs out, signs one last memo in his outgoing tray. The rest can wait until morning. When he stands, his back creaks and he winces. He’s not quite as young as he used to be, alas.

He winces again when his phone beeps at him. At this hour, it can’t be anything good. He catches himself wishing he hadn’t sent Anthea home four hours ago… but that thought vanishes when he lays eyes on the incoming text message.

Whether he consciously sits or allows his knees to fold, he couldn’t say, nor does he care.

_It’s done.  
SH_

It’s not the first message he’s received from Sherlock since his brother ‘died’, but it’s the first one that comes with a signature. It’s because of those two letters, more than the message itself, that he closes his eyes and allows himself three seconds of quiet and silence. No more than that, though.

Already restarting his computer with one hand, he dials with the other. He has Sherlock’s location before he even picks up.

It’s not a long conversation, but Mycroft reads between the lines, listens in between Sherlock’s pained breaths, takes in the occasional silence.

One body, Sherlock says, but Mycroft knows it must have been a lot more than that during his journey. He tried to keep tabs on him the best he could, but he only let two of his subordinates know and help, and sometimes they lost track of Sherlock. Once, they had no idea where he was for forty-seven days. Mycroft got a lot done, in these forty-seven days, but he didn’t get much sleep.

I’m all right, Sherlock also says, but he’s hurt. Not enough to ask for medical attention, but still hurt. It’s right there in his voice, in the cadence of his words, in his hesitation. How many ways did Mycroft imagine Sherlock might get hurt, over the past three years? Was it a thousand and seventy three or seventy four? Which way was it, this time? And how many other different ways before that? How many scars on his body – and how many scars on his mind?

It’s only too soon that the phone is silent again. Mycroft wishes he could have said… he’s not quite sure what, actually. There are topics he and his brother have never much cared to broach. It’s not going to change now, is it? Nothing is going to change. It’ll all go back to what it was before.

He doesn’t believe that for a second, but it’s a nice little comforting lie to tell himself for now.

Knowing already that he won’t be able to sleep tonight, Mycroft starts drafting a mental to-do list. Three years ago, he buried his brother. Time to bring him back to life.


	2. Conjectures - CFL2

At first glance, Sherlock looks fine.

Too thin, too little sleep, suppressing pain, but physically fine.

At first glance.

Mycroft knows better than to stop at first glance. That’s why he’s here, after all. Why he came to this shabby building to deliver Sherlock’s things in person instead of sending an underling. Give Sherlock a few days and he’ll rebuild his armor, hide things from Mycroft that Mycroft needs to know, but today…

Today he couldn’t hide anything if he tried.

But today, Mycroft finds himself distracted by something quite unexpected.

All this time spent gathering information on Moriarty, all these tidbits gleaned, these scraps fitted back together to form a larger picture and never - _never_ \- did any tiny hint come up that a child might be part of the puzzle.

There aren’t many surprises in Mycroft’s life. A few of them came from Sherlock – never good ones. A handful more came from Moriarty – usually even worse. This one surprise seems to link them both.

It can’t possibly be good.

And so, rather than observing his brother and deducing what he’s been through in the past three years, Mycroft finds himself scrutinizing a child that looks startlingly like his father.

At first glance, he looks fine.

Too thin, too little sleep, some bruises, but physically fine.

At first glance.

But the second glance says something else, and when Sherlock sends the child out of the room, he only confirms what Mycroft was beginning to put together.

Never mind unexpected. Never mind how miffed Mycroft is at the failure of his people to find out about this. This is a complication Sherlock doesn’t need in his life. It’s all going to be hard enough without this on top of it all.

And never mind that the child will require more help than Sherlock could possibly offer.

But Sherlock doesn’t want to hear it, and fighting with him right now feels counterproductive.

Besides, it’s hard to argue with him when, looking at him, all Mycroft can see is a reminder of his own failings. 

So, he drops the issue – for now. He goes back to his office. He continues working on bringing Sherlock back to life, in between doing his actual job. And somewhere in all that, he finds someone who is as much of a specialist in these issues as anyone could claim to be. He arranges for a private meeting that very afternoon and briefs the man in private after making him sign a confidentiality agreement. He doesn’t have much to offer, and some of it is conjecture rather than fact. The professor is unimpressed.

“You understand that without meeting the child in question any attempt at a diagnostic would be both foolish and useless.”

“I understand. Do it anyway.”

Mycroft doesn’t like surprises. Not one bit. He wants an idea of what’s coming, even if they’re only possible outcomes – and even if the child is likely to be out of Sherlock’s life before the week is over.


	3. Caretakers (CFL6)

For the next couple of days, Mycroft continues going through his list, one item at a time, in between international phone calls, security briefings and the writing and reading of memos to and from the Prime Minister’s office. Bringing his brother back to life feels more satisfying than anything else he does.

One of the items on his list is to inform Mummy. She sounds glad and asks when Sherlock will be visiting. Mycroft knows better than to make promises about that, although he thinks he’ll be able to talk Sherlock into it. After the child is placed with proper guardians, maybe.

Another item is to get the press to break the news. He gives that job to Anthea. He can’t abide journalists.

After careful deliberation, he orders CCTV surveillance on Sherlock. He tells himself it’s because of the child—because for all they know, he’s unstable or even dangerous. But maybe he just needs to know where Sherlock is. And that he is safe now.

Well, other than that new bruise on his face. He did try to warn Sherlock.

One more item on the list is to return his violin to Sherlock. He does it himself. CCTV is one thing, but talking to him tells Mycroft a lot more. Including when Sherlock stops talking and gets lost in his violin. He’ll be all right. It might take time, but he will be.

When he turns and finds the child on the edge of the kitchen, watching him with unfathomable eyes, the preliminary report rises to the front of his mind. ‘All right’ might be quite a way off, here, if at all reachable.

“Have you changed your mind yet about living with Sherlock?”

When the child tilts his head ever so slightly to one side, Mycroft is irresistibly reminded of Moriarty. It’s not particularly pleasant.

“Why would I?”

Mycroft half turns to where Sherlock is still playing with his eyes closed; it’s not quite as flawless as it should be, but after three years, that’s not much of a surprise.

“My brother can be extraordinarily single-minded,” he answers James’ question. “I doubt he even knows you’re in the flat right now. It’ll happen again. He’ll forget what time it is, and that you require food, or attention, or sleep. That’s no way for a child to live.”

“I’m not a child,” James replies instantly, standing up a little straighter as though to appear taller. “And I can take care of myself. I’ve done it before.”

He doesn’t say why he had to do it. He doesn’t say that his previous… _caretaker_ was even less suited for the job than Sherlock is. But it’s right there, in dark eyes as defiant as his father’s were.

Behind them, the bow screeches to a halt in the middle of a practice exercise. Sherlock starts over without a pause.

“And I can take care of him, too,” James adds, more quietly.

Before leaving, Mycroft gives him his phone number. Just in case.


	4. James Philip Holmes (CFL 18)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be AFK starting tomorrow night and until early March, so i thought I'd post another chapter of this before leaving.

The next three weeks are fairly busy – election years always are, even when they’re foreign elections that need attention – but Mycroft continues to receive regular reports about where James goes and what he does. And by extension, what Sherlock is up to.

The daily report is delivered every evening at ten, and he takes a moment to read it over while having a cup of tea. With a bit of extrapolation, he can figure out fairly easily how things are going in Sherlock’s life. He and John Watson appear to have renewed their friendship. DI Lestrade has been inviting him to assist on police cases. He seems to spend quite a lot of time on his violin.

There are a few days, after the wedding, when he remains shut in and Mycroft seriously think he’ll have to intervene, but Sherlock finally comes out again, to visit, of all places, the Natural History museum, James in tow.

One particular night, the report brings in a fairly nasty surprise. Mycroft’s tea grows cold while he summons the seven people who were, for more than a year, working full time on Moriarty. They produced a dossier over a foot tall, but apparently they still didn’t get everything. He never raises his voice as he demands to know _how on Earth_ with all the surveillance they had on Jim Moriarty they managed to miss not only the fact that he had a child but also resided in a veritable mansion in the heart of London. 

The answering silence is deafening.

None of them gets sent to Antarctica—but they have no idea how close they came to all being assigned there as a group. They’ve been working on other projects since Moriarty died, but he tasks them on going to Knightsbridge and finding out everything they can from that house. He does mention Antarctica, then; motivation always helps.

It’s finally a phone call from Mummy – the third one since he informed her that Sherlock was back – that brings Mycroft to Baker Street. That, and his belief that Sherlock has played quite long enough with the child. It’s time to get him to one of the families Mycroft personally selected for him.

Things don’t quite go the way he wanted, however. He can barely wrap his mind around the idea that Sherlock wants to keep the child – wants to adopt him, no less. The fact that James, in return, still wants to stay with Sherlock is just as puzzling.

Mycroft doesn’t like not understanding things. Especially things that concern his brother. As well as things that could end up very badly. In his irritation, he called the child ‘possibly unstable’, but there’s more than a sliver of truth to the words. If he ever hurt Sherlock, physically or emotionally…

Back in his office, Mycroft thinks about it, devoting a full hour to the topic. In the end, he doubles the surveillance on James. And requests a birth certificate to be drafted for James Philip Holmes.


	5. Mummy (CFL 19)

“A child? Sherlock adopted a _child_?”

Mycroft is regretting not having had the time to go talk to his mother in person. Without seeing her, he can’t begin to fathom what that tone of voice means—what she thinks, other than being surprised.

And surprised, she is as she repeats once more, this time on a tone of wonder, “He adopted a child.”

“More a teenager than a child,” Mycroft notes. “And much too clever for his own sake.”

She lets out a little snort at that. 

“Just like Sherlock, then,” she says dryly. “What is his name?”

The fingers of his free hand tapping on his desk, Mycroft takes a second to rethink his decision to tell her. Should he? Or is it a mistake? Will it worry her unduly? If he says nothing and she finds out later, how upset would she be?

He never liked upsetting her, but these days even less than ever.

“His name as of today is James Holmes,” he says slowly. “But before that, it was James Moriarty.”

When there’s no immediate reply, Mycroft finds himself wondering if she remembers the name. Newer things seem to be harder for her to recall. Just as he’s about to prod, she utters a simple word— “Why?” –and Mycroft doesn’t need to see her now to guess her bewilderment. He understands it quite well, too.

“An excellent question. Maybe you can ask Sherlock and get an actual answer out of him. Personally, I do not understand.”

“But… is he dangerous? You said he’s clever… Could he be following in his father’s footsteps? What if he tries to do what his father couldn’t and kill Sherlock?”

Another question Mycroft has asked himself. The answer he gives is reluctant, but, he is fairly certain, correct.

“I don’t think we have to worry about that. From what I have observed, I believe he genuinely cares about Sherlock. He has not shown any trait that would indicate he might suffer from a mental disorder. And in any case, I still have him under surveillance.”

“Which means you don’t fully trust him,” Mummy remarks at once, causing Mycroft to smile. Sometimes, it pains him to see the illness affecting her—and sometimes, she proves she’s as sharp as ever.

“There are very few people whom I fully trust,” he says.

Her silence sounds like a reproach. It sounds exactly the same as when he told her Sherlock was dead.

“He plays the piano.”

The words slip out without his consent. He never intended to tell her any such thing. His subconscious is playing a very transparent trick on him.

“Does he, now?” she replies coolly.

“I think you’ll find he’s even quite skilled.”

She lets out a little huff.

“And when will I find that out?”

“They’ll be visiting you tomorrow.”

Another silence. This one isn’t quite as reproachful.

“I suppose that means I’m a grandmother now,” she says at last. “How strange.”

And again, Mycroft knows exactly what she means.


	6. Texts (CFL 22)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to get back to a regular posting schedule. Please bear with me.

The next couple of weeks are quiet—or at least, what passes as quiet in Mycroft’s world. The Prime Minister is being extraordinarily obtuse about what should be a simple matter and it’s a good thing Mycroft’s patience is virtually limitless.

For work, at least, it is. For other things… not always.

He reduces the surveillance on James, but can’t bring himself to cancel it altogether. He underestimated Moriarty once, and it cost Sherlock three years of his life. James may not wear the name anymore, but Mycroft still sees too much of his father in him for comfort. The fact that Mummy was quite taken with him doesn’t change that fact.

It’s because of said surveillance that Mycroft knows that Sherlock—and James—go to St. Thomas hospital late on a Friday night. But the surveillance can’t answer the most basic question.

He types so fast, he has to correct three typos before hitting send.

_Why are you at St. Thomas?  
MH_

Refusing to let his mind formulate theories without any fact on which to base himself, he stares at his phone until the answer comes in, as though it’ll make it arrive faster. Alas, it’s all too predictable.

_Piss off.  
SH_

A few options present themselves. He could send someone there. Go there himself. Contact the administrator of the hospital. Or…

His fingers much more hesitant, he sends the same message to a different number; he’s never used it before, but it seemed like a good idea to have it on hand. Will James want to reply when Sherlock refused to? Or will Sherlock forbid him to?

A few seconds pass before Mycroft’s phone beeps with an incoming message.

_John and Mary were in a car accident. The hospital called Sherlock because he’s John’s emergency contact. They haven’t told us anything yet.  
JH_

First, Mycroft texts Sherlock.

_Let me know if I can help.  
MH_

Then James.

_Thank you. Let me know if Sherlock needs me.  
Mycroft Holmes_

Then he buzzes his assistant. Within two minutes, he has the number to the person in charge at St. Thomas at this hour. Five more, and he knows that John Watson is out of surgery with an excellent prognosis. He also knows Mary Watson is deceased.

It’s with a sigh that he hangs up the phone. He didn’t know the woman personally, but he had a file on her. He wouldn’t have wanted Sherlock to return only to have a new threat in his life. She seemed decent enough, he supposes. A bit boring, but decent. He’d lie if he said he cares all that much about her death. People die every day, many before their time, there isn’t anything he can do about it.

What he does care about is the upheaval that this could potentially cause in Sherlock’s life. Anything that touches John Watson is bound to have an impact on Sherlock, too.

And maybe, he wonders, on James as well. And that thought, somehow, feels very unpleasant.


	7. Sock Index - (CFL 25)

Sherlock wears a tie.

It’s been a long, long time since Mycroft saw him wear one. The circumstances were similar. Hopefully the similarities will stop there. Mycroft doesn’t like to think about the last funeral they attended together, and not because of who was in the casket then. It’s because of what happened after that he’s here today, that he needed to check in person the state of Sherlock’s mind.

Immediately, he knows he was right to worry.

“You don’t like funerals much, do you?” James is asking a blank-eyed Sherlock.

“No, he really doesn’t,” Mycroft answers for him. “Good morning, James. Sherlock.”

As he sits next to Sherlock, Mycroft can feel his brother’s glare on him; it matches Sherlock’s hiss.

“What are you doing here?”

“Attending a funeral. Are _you_ doing anything different?”

In the second of silence that follows, the past roars between them.

“Did you send your lackeys to make a mess of my sock index?” Sherlock asks, scathing.

Should Mycroft say that he considered it? Should he say that he went back and forth over the matter all night, finally deciding against? Did he make the wrong decision? He has to trust that he didn’t.

“Honestly, Sherlock. We both know you wouldn’t be stupid enough to fall into _that_ again now that you’re a father. Would you?”

Beyond Sherlock, James is looking straight ahead, but Mycroft has no doubt that he’s listening, and wondering what they’re talking about. Are these few words enough to give him a clue? Something else that Mycroft considered at length. When John moved in with Sherlock, Mycroft had a word with him about danger nights. Should he warn James in the same way? On one hand, if it ever came to that, James having an idea of what’s going on might be the difference between life and death. On the other, it’d alter the way James sees Sherlock, and Mycroft doesn’t think he has a right to do that, not when Sherlock hasn’t given him cause.

And judging by the look Sherlock gives him now, Mycroft might do serious damage to their relationship if he altered the trust between Sherlock and James.

The service starts. They fall silent, although Mycroft doubts Sherlock hears much of what is said—much like he doesn’t listen himself either. Funerals are all the same. Mycroft never found any comfort in them, and especially not the last one he attended, a little more than three years ago.

Sherlock is still blank-eyed when they all walk out of the church, and Mycroft’s question as to whether they will need a car to get home is met by silence. It’s John who answers that they don’t, and thanks Mycroft for coming. He might even mean it.

Offering his regrets for being unable to stay any longer, Mycroft leaves. In the car, he gives a single nod to Anthea, and she makes the call. The search will be complete before Sherlock gets home. Hopefully it won’t turn up anything.


	8. Forgiveness (CFL 32)

Weeks pass, and from the depths of his office, Mycroft watches a quiet routine establish itself at 221B. After weighing his options, he finally downgrades the surveillance measures on James. No one is ever going to dare tell him he’s spending too much of the country’s money on what is, ultimately, a family matter, but he hasn’t lost all sense of propriety. Besides, there’s one more person keeping an eye on James, right from inside 221B. 

Busy as he is, he only glances through the regular reports he is given, trusting that Anthea would alert him should anything require his immediate attention. Every few days, he considers dropping by uninvited to check on them in person… and to see if he can figure out what sleeping arrangements they have adopted now that there are more bodies than beds in that small flat. He has an inkling of where things will end up, but it might take a little longer. Grief is not so easily swept away—as far as Mycroft knows.  
In the end, he hears from Sherlock before going there in person, on a busy night when he’s working late. He won’t solve the climate change issue by himself, but he can at least try to use his resources to make a difference, for the good of England, and ultimately the entire world.

_I need CCTV footage of John’s car accident.  
SH_

Unbidden, a heavy sigh finds its way to Mycroft’s lips. He rubs at his eyes. He can’t fathom why Sherlock would want any such thing, but he can’t think of a single good outcome. He tries to evade the request.

_And you need this now?  
You do realize it’s past one in the morning, don’t you?  
MH _

Sherlock, it seems, won’t be deterred.

_Do this and I’ll never bring up again the role you played in Moriarty’s game.  
SH _

Long minutes pass during which Mycroft does nothing but stare at these few words. It has been some time since Sherlock last reminded him of the unfortunate decisions Mycroft made in this whole affair. Mycroft thought he’d done enough, in the past three years, to redeem himself somewhat in his brother’s eyes. It appears he was wrong if Sherlock thinks it appropriate to use as leverage.

It requires a few phone calls, two of which awaken their recipients, but it doesn’t take all that long to get what Sherlock asked for—and even more than that. Four cameras captured the scene from different angles. Mycroft has a tech sync them in one composite video.

When he sends it to Sherlock, he doesn’t wonder anymore what Sherlock needs this for, nor does he try to imagine what outcomes might ensue—good or bad. All he hopes is that this time his debt will be fully erased. Sherlock all but promised it would be, and Mycroft, for this, trusts his word.

What is more problematic is whether Sherlock’s proffered forgiveness means Mycroft is finally free to forgive himself, too.


	9. Rooftops (CFL 33)

Back in his office after a bare handful hours of sleep, Mycroft is sipping on a cup of strong tea while catching up on what he missed while he was away. North Korea is making trouble again; no doubt by morning the Americans will offer their typical response. Another round for nothing, in other words.

He’s about to move on to domestic issues when a light knock is followed by Anthea coming in. She hasn’t had any more sleep than he has—less, probably—but she looks well rested and ready to function at her highest level. Sometimes, Mycroft wonders if there’s anything he wouldn’t give to be twenty years younger again…

“What is it?” he asks, sitting up at once. He knows she wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important.

“A message from the surveillance on Baker Street,” she says succinctly, her gaze dropping to the phone in her hands. “The doctor left about an hour ago. Your brother and the child came out a little while later. The two of them are at Saint Bart now.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow at her. He’s not quite sure how that qualifies as an emergency. Before he can say a word, she looks up and meets his eyes as she finishes.

“They are on the roof.”

Mycroft’s blood turns to ice in his veins. It’s all he can do to set his teacup back down on its saucer without spilling what’s left in it.

“On the roof,” he repeats blankly.

Anthea nods, her face expressionless.

“They’re in full view of the new camera,” she adds, her gaze flickering to his laptop.

He inclines his head and thanks her. He forces himself to wait until she has closed the door again before he launches the CCTV program on his laptop and finds the appropriate camera.

Almost four years ago, he flew into a cold rage when he realized the roof of Saint Bart did not appear on any CCTV footage. The situation was remedied, but too late. He never imagined this camera would find a use. Then again, this is Sherlock. He’s all about drama.

And drama is what Mycroft finds when the image of the camera finally loads on his laptop. He zooms in and confirms his first impression: yes, those are tears on James’ cheeks. Something tightens within him, and for some odd reason he thinks of the last time he saw Sherlock cry. He was strapped to an hospital bed at the time, in withdrawal, and pleading for Mycroft to get him something, anything to make it all stop hurting. Mycroft had no idea what to do or say, so he just sat in silence until Sherlock fell asleep, exhausted.

Maybe he should have done what Sherlock does now: hold James until the tears stop.

Mycroft can guess what the topic of conversation is; in this particular place, it’s obvious what it must be. But he still watches closely, trying to read their lips, relieved when small smiles appear. When James leaves the roof, Mycroft stays on the image of his brother, watches him get close to the edge, and without thinking picks up his phone. He’s startled when Sherlock draws out his own. It only takes him moments to figure out who might be on the other end of that call. Only one person can put that look in Sherlock’s eyes.

He sets his phone down and, on a whim, circles through the other CCTV cameras in the neighborhood. The third one shows him what he expected to see: John, in the street, looking up and speaking on the phone, while Sherlock, still on the edge of the roof, looks down at him.

He can’t hear them, can’t even read their lips, half hidden behind their phones, but again, he’s fairly certain he knows what this conversation is about. He can’t decide whether to be annoyed it took so long to happen, or annoyed that it’s happening at all. Caring, sentiment, those are things away from which he tried to steer his brother.

Then again…

Sherlock hasn’t relapsed since meeting John Watson. And he’s been much more tolerant of their mother since James entered his life. Maybe sentiment isn’t too detrimental to him.

On the screen, John starts walking forward toward the hospital—toward Sherlock. Mycroft allows himself a tiny smile and turns off his computer.


End file.
